


Impersonal

by SilhouetteOfACedar



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, FWB without the F, Mulder has feelings, UST, drown me in ambiguity, it's not an error it's a stylistic choice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29731167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilhouetteOfACedar/pseuds/SilhouetteOfACedar
Summary: Every Friday night, at 7:15.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 121
Kudos: 398





	1. Chapter 1

He doesn’t drink.

He doesn’t drink; but he’s here in a bar on a Friday night, playing the game. Play-acting as a man who picks up women after work, takes them home. Tries to forget the tightly-wound redhead he was arguing with all day, who neglected to say “goodnight” to him when she left their office just two hours prior.

He doesn’t drink.

But here he is, perched in the dark on a slightly wobbly bar stool, thumbing the edge of a sweating tumbler. Tie loosened, sleeves rolled up past his wrists, sleepy eyes on the door. Waiting for the woman.

He and this woman have an arrangement; every Friday night, at 7:15. He gets a drink and waits for her. They make brief conversation, down one shot, and take a taxi to his place. Redecorate his apartment with various articles of clothing.

They both have needs, she had reasoned. They can use each other to get off, no harm done. Hot and impersonal.

Impersonal, but she calls him Fox.

She arrives almost fourteen minutes late.

“Hello, Fox,” she greets him, perching herself on the edge of the bar stool next to him. She doesn’t bother removing her coat, just taps a cigarette out of a brand new pack. Mulder raises a brow at her.

“New habit?” he asks, taking a diluted sip of scotch. His eyes fall closed; he can hear the click of a lighter and her soft inhale.

“None of your business,” she exhales. “You’re sour tonight. That little partner of yours being a bitch again?”

His eyes snap open. “S’not a bitch,” he insists. 

The woman narrows her eyes at him. He purses his lips, remembers their rules. Minimal work talk, because they’re not friends. He buys the drinks, she calls the shots. And never mention Scully.

The woman plays her role exceptionally well, but Mulder tends to slip up the later it gets. Calls her by her name, asks her how her day was. He’s beginning to suspect that casual sex doesn’t do it for him anymore.

This is the fifth time they’ve met up like this; drank a little, said even less. The sex is phenomenal, as far as the mechanics go. He thinks it should be enough; on paper, all the proverbial boxes are ticked. But she always leaves hastily, disappearing into the night; Cinderella in a suede coat with cigarettes in her pocket. He wakes to an empty bed and an ache in his chest.

 _Just go with it_ , he thinks. _Don’t ask for more; you’re lucky to get this much. Just play the game._

Mulder raises a hand to signal the bartender, but the woman places a cool hand on his bare forearm. The other hand holds her cigarette aloft. She doesn’t look at him.

“Let’s skip the drink tonight,” she says in a low tone. “You’ve got something I need.”

———

They don’t even make it to his newly acquired bed. She’s desperate tonight, kissing him feverishly, soft lips bewitching him and coaxing his arousal into bloom. Her mouth paints a winding stroke down his body, her small hands deftly undoing his belt, brushing his erection.

“Don’t think,” she whispers, drawing his fly down tooth by tooth. “Forget today. Just feel.”

Her tongue is persuasive, melting him in hot strokes. Damn him to hell, throw his soul away; it feels so good he could cry. He thaws by degrees in her mouth, fingers raking through her hair. She’s painfully good at this; driving him crazy, reading his moods, sucking his cock. Even if this is all he ever gets of this woman, he’s still a lucky man.

She’s on her knees, hands grasping his hips, tongue wrapped around his length. His body tightens in pleasure, and he lets himself moan.

“God, Scully-“

Everything stops.

_Shit._

His eyes fly open, and he looks down at her in horror, withdrawing his hands from her head. She slowly releases his cock with a soft slurp. “Dammit,” she sighs.

“I’m sorry, it was an accident,” Mulder pleads, almost tiredly. “Please don’t stop, not now.”

She shakes her head. “You know the rules, how this is supposed to work.” She refastens a few loose buttons on her blouse and rises to her feet. “No Scully.”

He drops down onto his worn leather couch, pants around his ankles like a damn fool. She smooths her tousled red hair; picks her coat up off the floor and gives it a casual brush of her hand, shaking off dust neither of them could see in the dim light. Collects herself and walks to the door.

“I’ll see you Monday, Mulder.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make that 7:29.

She doesn’t smoke.

She doesn’t smoke, but she’s at the drugstore two blocks from the bar where they meet, buying a Bic lighter and a pack of Morleys. She’d picked up a pack of condoms briefly before reconsidering the purchase and abandoning the carton on a shelf near the register. _Fuck it_ , she decides. Her womb is barren and she’s ready to light up and burn herself down to ash.

It is immensely satisfying after a long week to sit next to him in an anonymous bar, sip at bitterness, scrape his ugly tie derisively with a manicured nail. Pull him in, strip him down, remind him who’s really in charge. Show him that the Scully he knows hides a woman with hot blood, skilled hands, and a filthy mouth.

All week she’s Special Agent Scully, Doctor Scully, _his_ Scully. Her father’s name, her partner’s will. Who can blame her for wanting to take it all off, leave her names with her clothes in a trail on his apartment floor?

She’s going to savor this, catalogue every sound and sensation, take detailed notes in her mind for her weekly report in the confession booth. She was still a good girl, of course; just putting in extra practice time on her knees.

She hopes he bites her cross necklace again tonight, bends the soft gold with his teeth.

It’s nearly 7:30 by the time she enters the bar, and her eyes land on Mulder almost immediately. She had nearly expected him not to show up this time; they had spent the entire day arguing about some swamp gas in Michigan which Mulder insisted was somehow paranormal and worth a three hour red-eye flight and thousands in federal funds. It was exhausting, frankly, and she had half a mind to stand him up and while away the evening in her bathtub with a bottle of wine and a flimsy paperback.

Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, she needs something a little less comfortable, a little more dangerous. Something she can pointedly skirt around in conversation with her mother when they talk after mass on Sunday. _How was your weekend, Dana? Great, Mom. I fucked my partner on his kitchen floor and came so hard I saw stars. Good sermon today, huh?_

Scully licks her lips as she approaches her partner; a heady mix of nerves and anticipation making her dizzy. They’ve done this four times already; maybe after the fifth encounter she’ll stop being so damn nervous, relax into it a little more. Be able to pick up her drink with cold, steady hands; be able to look at him without falling in love just a little bit.

She’d gone all the way home to Georgetown to change into a sweater, and yet the sloppy bastard is still in his work clothes. The sight of his rumpled shirt and tired eyes makes her heart twinge. _Don’t go there, Dana_ , she chides herself. _You know exactly how that would end._ She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders.

“Hello Fox,” she murmurs, and the game begins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all so much for your support and encouragement while I let this story drag me down an unknown road. It means a lot. Also I wrote this after watching the Golden Globes so congrats Gillian <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night.

_\- Four Weeks Earlier -_

_Friday evening, the basement office, 5:06 PM._

It had started with a note. _Murphy’s Tavern, Alexandria, 7:15. Come alone._ She had dropped it onto the file folder of parapsychological bullshit he’d had his nose buried in for the last two hours.

“What’s this?” Mulder asked, unfolding the square of paper. He spat a seed husk in the general direction of the wastebasket and missed it by a good fifteen inches.

Scully pointedly avoided looking at him as she picked up her briefcase. “A proposition.”

Mulder leaned back in his chair. “I’m intrigued, Agent Scully. Should I be prepared for a negotiation?”

She glanced over her shoulder as she pulled the office door open. “Just don’t be late. I’m not going to wait for you.”

Scully went home, showered, and exchanged her starched work blouse for a dark, clinging sweater with a gentle v-neck. No make-up, no perfume, no bra, no name. She didn’t want him to think she made any special effort for him; she would draw him in with her natural form, let him smell her soap and clean sweat.

She drove herself to Alexandria; she planned to stay sober tonight. Next time, she’d take a cab.

_If there was a next time._

Murphy’s Tavern was a total dive, but it was only three blocks from Mulder’s apartment. Scully walked into the bar with a slight flutter in her stomach which graduated to a heavy churning in her belly when she saw him there at a table near the back. He raised a hand in greeting as she made her way to him.

“Hey, Scully,” he said as she slid into the seat across from him.

“First thing,” she interjected, putting up a hand. “If we’re going to do this, you can’t call me Scully. Don’t call me anything at all. You don’t know me.”

“What… what are we going to do?”

 _The inevitable_ , she thought. “I think you know.”

His face was blank. “Spell it out for me anyway.”

Scully sighed heavily. “I’ve been thinking, and considering this for a little while, so I don’t want you to question my decision. I would like to have a… physical arrangement. With you.”

There was a long silence. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, watched her carefully. “If what you’re suggesting is… is what I think you’re suggesting… I want to know your expectations.”

“No.”

He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, no?”

Scully felt a slight tremor in her hands. She clasped them on the table in front of her, leaned in. “I mean that I don’t have…expectations, for us. I want this to be clear; I’m not asking anything more of you. When we’re at work, or on a case, or any other time of the week, this arrangement doesn’t exist.”

“This arrangement being-“

“You, me, Friday nights.”

“Having-”

“Having sex, yes.” She fought the nervous impulse to look down, pick at a hangnail. “Is this something you could be amenable to?”

He said nothing, just stared at her.

“Look, I know this is probably coming out of left field, but it shouldn’t be that big of a surprise. We spend a lot of time together in a high-stress field that leaves us little time to pursue outside relationships, and physiologically speaking we are both of an age that-“

“You’re serious,” he interjected softly.

“Yes, I’m serious. It’s nothing personal, Mulder. I have needs, and God knows you do too. I’m not asking you to love me, make love to me, date me, or even be nicer to me sometimes even though you really fucking should. I’m asking you to take the edge off. That’s all.”

He opened his mouth, paused. “If it’s not personal, then why me?”

She reached out and ran a finger over his knuckles. _First contact_. “Because I know you. I’ve seen your medical records. I trust you.” Her fingers wandered down to the soft inside of his wrist. “And I’ve seen you naked.”

His hand twitched on the worn tabletop, and Scully bit her lips to keep from smiling.

Mulder’s soft eyes roamed her face, and for a moment she saw a flicker of something pass over his features. It was gone before she could parse out what it meant. His gaze settled briefly on the dip between her collarbones before meeting her eyes once more.

“I’ll try anything once,” he said with a small smile.

It was cute, really, Mulder thinking this could ever be a one-night stand. He had no idea what was coming.

They had walked to his apartment in silence, tension crackling between them. Every brush of their fingertips felt like static, but Scully didn’t want to start anything until they were over the threshold of #42. She was going to kiss him for the very first time, and she wanted some semblance of privacy; not for her sake, but Mulder’s.

She was going to ruin him.

There was something almost virginal about the way his knees buckled at the first press of her lips to his mouth. One kiss was all it took; his instincts took over. He returned her kiss sloppily, chasing her lips, following her into his apartment like a puppy eager to please.

Fox Mulder was a very, _very_ good boy.

She eventually found herself braced against the rarely-used dining table in his front room, her breath leaving faint tufts of condensation on the cool wood surface. His hands were pressed into her hips, fingers splayed over sweaty skin as he curved over her back. “Is this… is this what you wanted?” he panted in her ear.

Shock and pleasure swam in her veins, and she scraped together just enough air in her lungs to gasp out _yes_.

In all her planning and nervous bravado she hadn’t considered that he might ruin her too.

Two hours later they were sprawled on Mulder’s couch, completely exhausted and more than a little sticky. Scully didn’t move for fear that her legs would give out if she tried to stand.

“So… this,” Mulder gestured limply between them. “Was this…good? For you.”

Scully rolled her head to face him. “Are you genuinely asking or just trying to weasel some flattery out of me?”

“That good, huh?” he replied with a grin.

Scully sat up and reached about blindly for her clothes. “Jesus, where are my pants?”

“You’re leaving? It’s pretty late, Scully-“

She shot him a glare and he raised his hands placatingly. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? I can sleep on the pile of boxes in the bedroom, no problem.”

Scully limped over to the foyer and retrieved her underwear from beneath the dining table. “No, Mulder, I’m not staying.”

“Hey, if I can’t call you Scully, you can’t call me Mulder.” he replied, unfolding a scratchy aztec-print blanket over his lap. “While we’re making rules.”

She bent down to slip into her slacks. “What did she call you?”

“Who?” Mulder asked slowly.

“The one you fucked when I was missing. The blood fetishist.” She held his gaze while she fastened the button on her pants.

For a moment she thought he might actually look sad. “She… I wasn’t in a good place then, I don’t remember.” He took a deep breath. “Probably Fox.”

Scully pulled her sweater on over her head, combed her rumpled hair with her fingers.

“Fox,” she murmured, tasting the name on her tongue for the first time in years. It was short, soft with a sharp finish.

He winced, and she almost enjoyed it.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright driving home?” Mulder called out as she went for the door.

Scully paused, steeled her features to be as blank and expressionless as his usually were. “I was never here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHRISTOPHER MARIE CARTER WOULD NEVER


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder sits pantsless on his sofa and regrets a few things.

Fox Mulder was just rejected mid-blowjob.

It’s a new experience, one he’d rather not repeat. Two out of five stars, if he’s giving reviews. The second star was for the fact that he’d actually gotten to feel Scully’s mouth on his cock. Unfortunately, her abrupt departure had the effect of an ice bath on his nervous system, and he was left cold and deflated and sick in his own skin.

He assumes their little sexual experiment is over, judging by how tired and disappointed her eyes were when she put on her coat and cooly left his apartment. He gave it his best shot; over the past four weeks he put aside his feelings and fucked her exactly the way she wanted. He did a damn good job of it, by his own dubious assessment. She seemed to enjoy it, but apparently not enough to overlook this one stupid mistake. Not enough to bend the rules for him.

So now he’s alone again, pants on the floor, bare ass stuck to that stupid green sofa. He’s got a bed, but maybe he'll sleep here tonight just to punish himself. Beds should be shared, and there’s only one woman he wants tangling his sheets and running her cold little toes up his calves in the night.

Scully.

He wishes she’d stayed over at least once, just so he could see her slumber-rumpled morning face and fluffy hair. Feel her shifting in her sleep, rolling over under the covers, burrowing into the blankets and leaving a Scully-shaped divot in the bed. He wants her scent to permeate his sheets; he wants to drink it, get high off of it, inject her directly into his veins.

_Scully._

They did this whole thing backwards, in Mulder’s estimation. Crescendoed before the chorus. If he had his way, he would have invited her out for a walk amongst the cherry blossoms, coffees in hand. Maybe they’d link elbows, share a muffin. And then, if he worked up all the courage left in his crumpled paper heart maybe he’d say “Hey Scully, I’m in love with you. Do you think you could love me?”

The truth is, there was nothing actually stopping him from doing that. At any point in the years they’d spent together he could have said something, made a move. But he didn’t, so she made it first.

And it wasn’t the move he wanted.

Not that he’s exactly complaining; Dana Scully is brilliant and passionate and thorough and he still can’t believe he’s gotten five - four and a half?- nights to explore her. He’s undressed her, touched her, worshipped her, tasted her. He’s bitten her thighs, felt her dripping on his tongue, lost himself inside her body. What more could a sorry sonofabitch like him ask for?

And now he’s fucked it up.

Her rules were so simple, and he tried so hard to follow them; he really did. But his heart couldn’t let him forget who she was, how much he wanted her.

He had been smoothing his hands over her sides and he remembered that he knew her mother. (Inopportune timing, but he rallied).

She writhed in his lap, and he saw her sleeping on his shoulder in an anonymous rental car.

His teeth got caught in her necklace and he remembered how it felt against his chest when she was missing.

She bit his earlobe and he wanted her to swallow him whole.

It all came to a head when she put her mouth on him and he called her Scully.

_Scully._

Mulder kicks his pants all the way off and rises with a sigh to fetch his pillow. He’s spent countless lonely nights on this couch; what’s one more?

Meanwhile, eleven miles north, Scully sits fully clothed on the edge of the tub and lets her bathwater go cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That couch is probably so gross y'all why do we never talk about this


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musings of a pajama-clad scientist.

Scully opens the drain on her bathtub, lets the tepid water gurgle down the drain with the last of her eucalyptus bath oil. _What a waste._

She has been sitting in her bathroom lost in thought for nearly an hour, cataloguing all the ways she may have potentially fucked up her life by entering into this sexual tangle with her partner. Part of her is surprised it didn’t fall apart sooner, to be honest. She could expertly tamp down her own feelings and let her more carnal needs take over, but Mulder was never very good at following rules.

There were a few hiccups in the beginning; get a drink or two into him and he’d slip up, momentarily forget that they were playing strangers. But she’d handled him well, and by the fourth night they had sex it really felt to Scully like they had found their rhythm.

Then tonight, with only a few sips of scotch on his tongue, he moaned her name. He moaned her name and for about two seconds, she liked it.

Really, _really_ liked it.

In the next instant her blood ran cold because they can’t, she can’t. If she lets herself have feelings for him the whole thing implodes.

_Don’t read into it, Dana. He calls you Scully all the time._

But this was laughably, achingly different. Everything about that moment, about what they were doing, was different. Out of bounds, against the rules, a foul ball. She wondered if maybe they had become different too.

She wishes she could call up Melissa, pour out all her problems and stupid choices over the phone. Melt herself into a pile of lavender soap bubbles and twirl the phone cord around her finger until it cuts off circulation to her digits. Listen to her sister’s warm voice prescribing meditation, self-reflection, honesty.

 _Plus,_ Missy would undoubtedly add, _Fox is really quite good-looking if you get past the crazy._

She almost thinks of calling Maggie instead, then swiftly decides against it. She doesn’t want to explain exactly what she’s been getting up to, and the situation is impossible to describe without those critical salacious details.

Scully slips into her silk pajamas, for the first time feeling oddly overdressed for sleeping alone in her own humble apartment. She had started wearing nice pajamas after Mulder came to her door to invite her running in Bellefleur. There had to be a deeper meaning to that somewhere, but Scully hadn’t let herself explore it. Instead she just crawls into bed in dainty periwinkle pajamas, settles into the right side of the mattress - _Leaving room for someone, Dana?_ \- and reaches to turn out the lamp.

She sees the phone sitting on the bedside table.

Fatigue can lower inhibitions. That’s the only excuse Scully has for the idea that pops into her head; and before she can talk herself out of anything, she picks up the phone and presses speed dial.

Two rings. “Mulder,” the voice on the other line says.

Scully snuggles deeper under the covers, closes her eyes. “Mulder, it’s me.”

“Scully,” he says, sounding surprised.

They’re both silent.

“Scully are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” She takes two quick breaths, hopes he doesn’t hear them.

“You alright? Usually I’m the one making the late night phone calls.”

“I-I’m fine, Mulder. I was just… you don’t have plans for Sunday morning, do you?”

A pause. “Look, if you’re inviting me to Mass I’m going to have to pass, Scully. The consensus seems to be that I’m irredeemable.”

She smiled in spite of her nerves. “I think I’ll spare the parish the trouble then. Actually, I was thinking of skipping this week’s service myself.” _Just spit it out, Dana. This is ridiculous._ “I was wondering if you’d like to get breakfast. On Sunday. Ten o’clock?”

“With you?”

“Yes, Mulder, with me. We can go to that greasy little diner you like too much, the one that burned my bacon.”

“Is this a work thing or-”

She licks her top lip anxiously, grateful he can’t see her face. “It’s a matter of personal business.”

“Do we still have personal business?”

“I… I think I’d rather not discuss this now. I’ll see you Sunday?” _Please say yes,_ she thinks. _Don’t make this harder for me._

“I’ll be there,” he replied.

She bids him goodnight and hangs up before he can respond.

_Sunday, ten A.M. Only thirty-four hours and twenty-six minutes to go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexa play "Can I Call You Tonight?" by Dayglow


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggs two ways.

This is a mistake.

The diner is sun-warmed and bustling, rich with the aroma of coffee and butter. Scully feels oddly disarmed by the cheery atmosphere and steady stream of Sunday morning breakfasters parading past their little booth in the corner.

“It’s a beautiful day. Should we get our orders to-go?” she asks, scooting further towards the window.

“Coffee’s already poured,” Mulder replies, lifting his mug. “Relax, Scully. It’s the weekend. Besides, can you imagine trying to eat a Denver omelette while walking?”

Damn him, how is he so calm? There he is, freshly showered and shaved and smelling incredible in a soft navy blue sweater, dumping another packet of sugar into his coffee. She almost chastises him for it, as a defense mechanism, until she tastes her own cup and stiffens at the bitterness.

“Jesus, Mulder, why do you like this place so much? The coffee could strip the paint off my car.”

He grins at her. “It’s got character, Scully. And they make a mean hash brown.”

Scully had been planning her speech all day yesterday, preparing herself for this meeting. But her courage is waning fast. She tries to ignore the way the morning light kisses his face, lights up the colors in his eyes. He raises an eyebrow at her and the moment dissipates.

“So what’s the occasion, Scully? Am I in trouble?”

“In the grand scheme of things, it’s very likely,” Scully quips, taking another cautious sip of her coffee before giving up and reaching for another sugar packet.

“Mm,” he agrees. “Good thing I have you around.”

“Do you,” she murmurs, shaking sugar into her cup. She crumples the packet between her fingers.

“Don’t I?”

“Well, I’m here, so that’s something.”

“Yes you are.” His eyes are so soft she has to look away.

She takes a deep breath. “Mulder, Friday was the last time.”

His face goes blank. “Okay.”

She looks down at her mug. “Okay,” she echoes.

She thinks she should feel better, but she doesn’t.

Their waitress bustles in, popping the bubble of tension around them as she plunks their plates down on the freckled formica tabletop. “Denver omelette and fruit for the lady, and the home run special for this one,” the waitress says with an appreciative wink. “Bet you’ve stolen a few bases in your day.”

Scully can feel her ears getting hot, and she busies herself with her food until the waitress walks away.

“‘In my day’… was she calling me old?” he muses, shoveling eggs into his mouth.

“She’s got at least ten years on you, Mulder. I highly doubt she thinks you’re old,” Scully replies, stabbing a piece of honeydew with her fork. “I think it was a compliment.”

He watches her face as he chews. “Huh.”

“What?”

He swallows his mouthful, washes it down with coffee. “Scully, are you… are you jealous?”

Shit. How can he still read her so easily? She’s been putting up brick walls around herself all morning. “No, I’m not jealous, Mulder. Eat your breakfast.”

Mulder tears the crust off his toast with his teeth. “So are we splitting the bill or is this a date?” Scully opens her mouth, but he keeps talking. “Because if you’re wining and dining me I’ll order a glass of orange juice. They squeeze it fresh.”

Maybe she had misread the whole situation. She had invited him here to discuss the termination of their arrangement, yet after she blurted it out he seemed completely unfazed and continued making jokes and behaving as though nothing had happened.

_Isn’t that what you wanted, Dana? To pretend nothing happened?_

Mulder is talking to her with his mouth full, but she doesn’t hear him. She barely tastes her omelette, chases a grape around her plate. When did she get so damn soft? She used to be good at this, organizing her thoughts and feelings into neat little boxes. Mulder was supposed to be the sloppy one in this situation, but she can’t shake the feeling that she’s just been knocked on her ass.

“Scully?”

 _Shit_. “Hm?”

“I just said I’m having my right leg amputated in the the quest to fulfill my peg-legged fantasies, and you didn’t even offer to do the honors. You okay?”

Scully sighs. “I’m fine, Mulder. Just a little tired.”

“Was there… something else you were wanting to-”

“No, no,” she insists. Her coffee’s gone cold and sludgy with sugar at the bottom of the mug. “It’s nothing.”

Mulder shrugs and returns to decimating his breakfast.

When the waitress brings the check, Scully grabs it as Mulder begins to extract his wallet from the pocket of his coat. “I’ve got it,” she says, locking eyes with him. _Please hear what I’m saying,_ she thinks. _Don’t make me spell this out. Not yet._

“Okay,” he says softly, putting his wallet away. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she replies.

He walks her to her car, and she wonders what wrong turn she made in life that guaranteed he wouldn’t be kissing her goodbye. They stand awkwardly on the sidewalk next to her vehicle, Scully clutching a styrofoam box containing leftovers she’ll eat in front of the tv tonight.

‘So,” Mulder says genially, “will I be held culpable in the afterlife as your reason for skipping Mass?”

“I think we can both agree that’s the least of your transgressions,” Scully replied. She laid a tentative hand on his forearm, gave it a soft squeeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mulder.”

“Later, Scully. Thanks for breakfast.”

She nods, fumbling with her keys, as Mulder walks away. He takes two steps before turning back to her. “Hey, Scully.”

“Yes?”

He scratches his chin absently. “Uh, if you ever want to renegotiate… I know a guy.”

Her stomach flips. She clears her throat, steadies herself. “Mulder, I’ve made it pretty clear to Frohike that I’m not interested.”

He nods sagely. “It was worth a shot, for the little guy’s sake,” he replies. “See you tomorrow.”

He gives her a corner of a smile before heading back down the street.

Scully is so flustered that she drives a block and a half before realizing she left her takeaway box on the roof of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The home run special consists of eggs (any way you want them), bacon, sausage, hash browns, and toast or a biscuit. In case you were wondering.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two FBI agents go on a date without knowing

The game had ended and he wasn’t surprised.

He expected this. He prepared himself all day Saturday by running six miles, jacking off twice, and mopping his entire apartment. He didn’t even own a mop; he actually went out and bought one. By the time Sunday morning rolled around he was ready for the inevitable collapse of their precarious sexual arrangement and greeted Scully with aplomb.

And then she paid for breakfast.

That was unexpected. When the FBI wasn’t footing the bill, they usually split the tab, or threw a “you can get the next one” down on the table alongside crumpled bills.

He had been joking about it being a date, but then she paid. And it meant something. Her big blue eyes pinned him to the booth, had him trapped and squirming like an insect on a card as she laid a hand over the check. “I’ve got it,” she said, and his senses were suddenly ignited. He could feel thick sunshine pouring over them, lighting up Scully’s hair like a smudge of cinnamon. Her lips looked so sweet and soft, and the very idea that he might never feel them again stole his breath. He felt dry and empty, a desiccated housefly body lying on a windowsill.

He thanked her for breakfast, and his throat was lined with dust.

Their parting was weird. Hinting that he was still available to her was an insane risk, and she turned it into a joke about Frohike. Unless she actually thought he was the one joking about Frohike, which he has to admit wouldn’t be out of character for him.

He’s tired of joking, tired of hiding, tired of dancing around his intentions. Tired of wanting and not asking, tired of being in his own damn way.

Scully has given him a graceful exit, a neatly drawn map back to their pre-sex starting point. And not for the first time, Mulder wads up the map and tosses it aside. Scully made her move; it was time for him do the same.

What that move would be, he has no idea.

It takes him eleven days. No wonder Scully took matters into her own hands the first time around. Inspiration strikes him during his drive from Alexandria to D.C. the next Thursday morning, when he crosses the Potomac and gets a glimpse of faraway blossoms.

He waits until 4:47 that afternoon to say anything.

“Hey Scully, you doing anything tonight?” he asks, rifling through a stack of papers as though he’s attending to FBI business and not trying to work up courage like a schoolboy.

Her glossy red head is bent over a file, pen at her lip. “Besides folding an obscenely large pile of laundry, my schedule seems fairly empty,” she replies. She looks up at him suspiciously. “Why, Mulder?”

“No reason, really. There’s just something I wanted to show you, get your opinion on.”

“Is it related to a case?”

He opens a desk drawer, pretending to look for something. “Well it _could_ be a totally natural phenomenon, but who can say for certain without proper investigation?”

Scully sighs. “Fine, I’ll bite. And speaking of bites, I’m starving. If we’re going to work off the clock, can we at least eat?”

“Wanna stop for Chinese? We can take it with us. We’re not going far, the food should still be hot when we get to our secondary location.”

They take Mulder’s car, picking up several cartons of food from a restaurant in Chinatown a few blocks up from the Hoover building before making their way towards the National Mall. Mulder parks in the lot near the Washington Monument.

“You weren’t kidding when you said we weren’t going far,” Scully says, gathering up the bag of takeout. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“That,” he replies, pointing ahead.

Hundreds of cherry trees line the Tidal Basin, their leaves almost entirely obscured by tufts of blossoms. Scully steps onto the path, open-mouthed.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs.

Mulder shoves his hands in his pockets. “Pretty fantastic, huh?”

“Mulder,” she says in awe, looking sideways at him, “What are we doing here?”

He shrugs. “I just wanted to see them.”

“At night?”

“Daylight’s for tourists, Scully.”

They’re sitting on the damp grass, endeavoring to split the last egg roll using only their dueling pairs of chopsticks.

“This is impossible, Scully. I’m going to use my hands.”

“Then I definitely don’t want the other half,” she says.

“Are you implying something about my hygiene?”

“I’ve seen some of the places your hands have been, Mulder.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at her, and she rolls her eyes.

“Not what I meant,” she says softly. “But the point still stands.”

Mulder lays back on the lawn, his long coat fanning wide. Scully pulls an edge of it towards her, scoots closer so she can rest her pantyhose-clad calves on it instead of the grass.

“I’ve always preferred the blossoms at night,” he says. “There’s something ghostly about them, all pink and white against the dark sky. Not an ominous kind of ghostly, however; if good spirits exist, I think they’d look like these trees. You know most early European religions feature some sort of reverence for trees or forests, whether as spiritual gathering places or deities themselves-“

“Mulder.”

“Hm?”

“Are you going to eat that egg roll, or can I have it?”

He passes her the carton. “And-”

“Why did you bring me here, Mulder?”

He glances at her and is surprised to see a tenderness in her eyes. His gaze returns to the branches above.

“I just figured I owe you a nice trip to a forest, and this one won’t require any paperwork.”

Scully smiles. “That’s a very considerate choice, Mulder, especially since I’m always the one doing said paperwork.”

“You’re more succinct and readable than I am, apparently. And Skinner clearly likes you better.”

“Didn’t you punch him in the face once?”

“That’s beside the point. I think he has a bit of a crush on you, Scully.”

She rolls her eyes. “What?” Mulder asks.

“I just… it’s nothing, It’s been a long day. And it’s cold out here.”

Mulder sits up and withdraws his arms from the sleeves of his overcoat.

“No- Mulder, don’t, I’m fine.”

“Move your legs,” he instructs, pulling the edge of the coat out from under her. He stands and drapes it around her shoulders before plopping back down on the grass next to her.

“Thanks,” she says. “Still, it’s getting late.”

He glances at his watch. “It’s seven-thirty on a Thursday. You got somewhere to be?” His arm bumps her shoulder companionably. “Come on, just a little longer. Maybe we’ll see something unidentified in the sky.”

He grins at her and the corner of her mouth twitches in reply. “Well, I guess I don’t have a choice,” she sighs. “You drove us here.”

He feels a slight increase of pressure against his arm and realizes that Scully is ever so slightly leaning into him. A gentle warmth glows in his belly, and he glances sidelong at her.

 _I’m a lucky son of a bitch,_ he thinks.

“How so?” Scully asks.

Oh. He said it out loud. He clears his throat, tries to steer his thoughts back into safer waters.

“Well, for one thing, I’m not dead,” he says. “Not for lack of trying.”

Scully nods solemnly.

“I’ve seen incredible things, things people spend their whole lives looking for, hoping for, believing in. I’ve tasted proof, held the truth in my hands. And in spite of everything, I’m still here. _We’re_ still here. That’s pretty goddamn lucky.”

“I don’t feel very lucky,” Scully says softly. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve fucked up every good thing I’ve ever had a chance at. My father certainly thought so, at least for a long time.”

They sit silently for a moment. “Without you, I’d be long dead,” Mulder admits.

“I know,” Scully replies. “I’m always awed by your resilience, actually. I can’t take all the credit for your continued survival.”

“Yeah, you can,” he says, getting to his feet and dusting stray blades of grass off his slacks. He holds out a hand and helps her to her feet. Her fingers are cool against his palm, and he wonders if she’d notice if he didn’t let go. Probably.

He wants to pull her in by the lapels of his coat, gather her to his chest, hold her for no reason other than he can. Kiss her brow, smell her hair, feel her small hands sliding under his suit jacket. He wants her just as she is, for exactly who she is.

But he’s a chickenshit, so instead he just walks beside her along the Tidal Basin, under the cherry blossoms, and doesn’t hold her hand.

They spend the five minute drive back to the Bureau in comfortable silence. Scully leans her head against the car window, and Mulder briefly wonders if she’ll fall asleep. He loves when she nods off while he’s driving; it makes him feel safe. _She_ makes him feel safe.

He parks a few spots away from her car in the Bureau parking garage, turns off the engine. Scully gathers up her briefcase, leaving Mulder’s coat draped open on the passenger seat.

“Why are you getting out?” she asks, seeing Mulder unbuckling his seatbelt.

“I need a file from the office,” he lies. He exits the car and goes around to her side. “I’ll walk you to your door, it’s on my way.”

It’s twenty feet from her car to his. “Thank you, Mulder,” Scully says sardonically, fishing her keys out of her coat pocket. “If I weren’t armed, that would have been very thoughtful of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies. He takes a step forward.

“What are you doing?” Scully asks, one hand on her car door, keys in the other.

“Nothing,” he replies quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” _God, she’s so small, this could so easily go wrong-_

He pitches forward, bending down, and presses his lips to the fullness of her cheek. His nose brushes the soft skin under her eye and he inhales sharply, drawing back.

They blink at each other. “Bye,” Mulder offers.

Scully nods. “Yes. Goodnight.” She glances to the elevators. “Was there actually a file you needed?”

He just looks at her, and she presses her lips together in understanding. “Right. Well, I’m leaving, so… see you tomorrow then.”

Right. Despite recent events, the earth was still spinning.

Later, when he hangs his overcoat, he notices the faintest scent of her shampoo on the collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Sommelier recommends "Agape" by Nicholas Britell as an accompaniment to this sweet and savory chapter
> 
> also why is this one so goddamn long oop


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo.

Scully can’t sleep.

The first thing she did when she got home was run a bath, hot enough to leave her skin rosy and raw. She soaked until her fingers pruned, scrubbed her heated body with peppermint soap, and tried not to think about Mulder.

She dug fresh pajamas out of the basket of clean laundry she’d meant to fold, wrapped herself in satin, tried not to imagine Mulder unbuttoning the top and slipping it off her shoulders.

She brushed her teeth, skipped her nightly moisturizer to avoid touching her cheeks.

Now she’s neatly tucked into her tidy bed in her clean pajamas and clean skin and she’s ready to tear herself to pieces.

Their evening was so normal, natural, comfortable; just enough intimacy to sate her aching heart, not enough to require her to open up any further than she already had. She was warm, well-fed, and contentedly drowsy.

And then he kissed her.

It was a simple kiss; just his plush lips pressed against her cheek, fully and briefly, but it sent her spinning out of control in an instant. Suddenly her skin felt too tight for her bones, her organs rearranged; her stomach upside-down and her heart in her throat.

 _This is ridiculous. We’ve kissed before,_ Scully reasons with herself. _We’ve had sex, for fuck’s sake._

And it was good sex. Really, really good.

She’s avoided thinking about it, especially since the termination of their arrangement. But a simple, chaste kiss from Mulder has completely destroyed her, and she forces herself to reckon with the truth.

Fox Mulder turns her on, drives her crazy, and may be ruining her life, but she doesn’t care because he’s also passionate and tender and devoted and the only person she’d risk it all for.

And he made her come. A lot.

Scully is having something of an epiphany regarding her feelings, but frankly, it’s inconvenient. Her body is wound tight and she needs release, or she’ll never get to sleep. So she allows herself to indulge in memory as her hands traverse her body.

There was the first time, against his kitchen table. Admittedly an advanced place to start, but they’d been desperate. Then there was the time he backed her onto his desk and buried his face between her legs, the light of his fish tank bathing them in blue as he deconstructed her with hot laps of his tongue. _Those damn sunflower seeds had been a clue all along,_ she’d realized. And the first time they’d had sex in his new bed… the way his hips moved against her, pressing her against the headboard…

She usually takes longer than this when she goes solo but there’s too much tension building to slow down now. Her fingers are frantic and her chest is heaving and she’s almost there…

She remembers Mulder leaning in, giving her a shy but intentional kiss on her cheek, and she comes.

_Fuck._

She lays panting, yanks her hand out of her pajama pants, too exhausted to get up but too sticky and uncomfortable to stay in bed. She kicks the tangled covers off and heads to the bathroom to clean up.

Scully returns to her bed, wrestles with her blankets, punches her pillow into shape under her neck, and stares up at the ceiling in the dark.

God fucking dammit. She’s in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry mom


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surface tension.

Mulder gets to the office half an hour early the next morning, his spirits unusually high. He feels like skipping through the halls, flinging goddamn rose petals. He’s too antsy to stay in his chair just yet, so he walks to get a cup of coffee. He briefly considers getting one for Scully before deciding it’s Too Much, Too Soon, then changes his mind and gets her one anyway. It’s just coffee, it doesn’t have to mean anything.

He doesn’t know what they are, or what last night meant. All he knows is that he made a move and didn’t get punched in the face. It feels like progress.

He returns to the basement, coffees in hand, and tries to calm himself down by perusing a stack of files he’s been ignoring for two days. Scully usually gets to work by 8:50, so he has a few minutes to get settled before she arrives.

Nine o’clock and still no Scully. Mulder sharpens a few pencils and resists the impulse to throw them at the ceiling tiles.

At 9:07 he throws one. It bounces off the tile and falls to the floor. He nudges it under the desk with his foot.

At 9:12 he picks up the phone to call her and hangs up before the first ring.

She enters the office at 9:23 and leaves the door ajar.

“Morning,” Mulder says, holding out her cup of coffee. It’s lukewarm and he feels slightly pathetic offering it to her. “Hit traffic?”

She takes the cup wordlessly, sips it, and makes a face. “Sorry it’s cold,” Mulder apologizes, getting up to close the door. The latch clicks and he sees her stiffen momentarily. “You’re usually here early.”

“It’s fine,” she replies. “I just didn’t sleep well last night. Missed my alarm.”

Mulder nods in understanding. “Hope I didn’t keep you up too late,” he says.

Her head snaps up, eyes wide. Her cheeks look pink. _Interesting._ “What-”

“You said it was getting late. Last night,” he explains hurriedly. “Is what I meant.”

“Oh.” She looks down again. _Why is she avoiding looking at him?_

In awkward situations, the Dana Scully he knows is nothing but cool. She’s collected, composed, and fears no man; it’s one of Mulder’s favorite things about her. Even during the height of their sexual arrangement she showed up at work on time, well-rested, and acting like absolutely nothing happened over the weekend. She was so good at compartmentalizing that it almost scared him. But something about her today is different, off somehow.

He studies her, gathering visual clues. Her hair is smooth and shiny as always. It probably smells like the shampoo he got a whiff of last night - _God, he needs another hit of that scent_ \- and is neatly tucked behind her ear on one side. She’s wearing her little pearl earrings, and the sight of her earlobe makes his mouth water. He’s sucked that earlobe, kissed that neck, and all he wants is to do it again and again and again-

“Mulder,” Scully says cautiously, “Are you okay?”

Her lips seem darker today. Is she wearing that lipstick again? The one that stained his collar one of those passionate nights…

“Yeah, why?” he replies casually, leaning back in his chair. He feels a twinge south and quickly changes position, sitting upright and scooting the chair under the desk.

“You were staring.”

“Sorry. I was thinking about something else.”

“Something else.”

He scrambles mentally. “Yeti.”

She presses her lips together. “Right.”

Mulder sees Scully’s lips move; she mouthes “yeti” to herself. He swallows, tries to think of something to say. The only thing that comes to mind is the truth.

“Thanks for coming out with me last night,” Mulder says softly. “It was nice.”

“Expense reports are due by five,” Scully replies, and it's like being hit with a bucket of cold water.

———

Scully hates being late; it throws her whole day off. She slept through her alarm and didn’t have time to wash her hair so it was probably flat and lifeless. She didn’t have time for breakfast either, just half a dry bagel wedged between her teeth as she hurried out the door. She heard that stupid “Friday I’m In Love” song in the car and turned the stereo off with a punch of the button. The only lipstick she had in her bag was the rich berry one that she usually saved for rare nights out, so she was self-conscious about her mouth the whole way down to the basement.

Then there was Mulder, awaiting her like an eager puppy with a wagging tail and tepid coffee. His enthusiasm was sometimes charming, often exhausting; and today it was almost offensive.

_Yeti? You look at me with those starry bedroom eyes and then say you’re thinking about_ **_yeti_ ** _?_

To be fair, Scully does feel a bit like an abominable snow person this morning; hulking and frosty, reduced to base desires. She’s sleepy, stressed, and hungry. And horny, but she’s really fighting that one back.

He thanks her for last night, as though she was doing him a favor by spending time with him. As though she didn’t go straight home afterwards and get herself off thinking about him, too wound up and exhausted to feel any proper shame.

Hell, he never seemed embarrassed by his sexual proclivities; why did she have to be so uptight about hers?

Mulder’s eyes are warm and earnest, and she feels almost naked under his honest gaze. She redirects his attention to their expense reports, like tilting a beach umbrella to block the afternoon sun.

There’s a new tension between them now; like they’re standing on the edge of deep pool, dipping their toes in, waiting for the other to take the first plunge. She can see a version of herself, a braver Scully, opening her mouth and letting her secrets spill out. Stripping down to her naked soul, letting Mulder see exactly what she’s been so afraid to reveal. She can feel the shape of the words against her palate, balanced on the tip of her tongue. But she can’t. Not here, not yet. She has work to do.

 _Just a few more hours,_ Scully thinks, _then it’s the weekend, and you can spend the next two days wallowing in your feelings and avoiding Mulder until Monday._

She glances up from her papers and catches him quickly looking away, and she suddenly wonders if maybe they’re _both_ fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they wanna fuck on that desk 100%


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soup: the world's worst aphrodisiac

She should just go home.

She’s already knocked once, but heard no movement inside.

It’s not like she came here with any concrete plan. One minute she’s sitting on her sofa, trying to read, and the next she’s in her car on her way to Alexandria, rehearsing five different potential conversations she and Mulder could have when he opens his apartment door and finds her standing there uninvited.

Talking’s usually a bad idea, right? They have an unspoken communication that works beautifully; there’s no need to change it. She can turn around, walk down the hall to the elevator, and pretend she was never here. If by chance he heard her first knock, maybe he’d open the door and see no one there and assume it was ghosts. She could spawn another useless, dead-end investigation just by chickening out at Mulder’s doorstep. Skinner would love that report. He could pass it around at the water cooler, get a few laughs.

She knocks again in spite of herself, a few raps more than the first.

Maybe he wasn’t home. She glances at her watch. It’s nearing eight on a Friday night. What does Mulder usually do on Friday?

_Oh. Oh god._

Up until very recently, he usually does _her_.

 _Could he be out with someone else?_ Part of her thinks the idea is ridiculous, given the signals he’s been sending towards her lately. But maybe there were no signals; maybe it was her own wishful thinking projecting her desire onto him. Maybe-

“Scully,” he says from down the hall, and her heart rate immediately accelerates. He’s holding grocery bags.

“Mulder... I didn’t expect you,” she says stupidly. _Really, Dana? You’re in front of his goddamn door._

“Must be fate,” he says with a smile. “Hey, you mind unlocking the door for me? My hands are a little full.”

She hums in assent and pulls out her key ring, flipping to the one for his apartment door. The label with ‘Mulder’ written on it was mostly worn off, but she didn’t need it anymore. She knew by touch exactly which key was his.

God, she’s ruined.

“Thanks,” he says, scooting past her. “You wanna come in?”

_Yes yes yes-_

“I don’t want to intrude, if you have plans,” she says instead.

“It’s just me and the fish tonight,” he assures her, taking the bags into his kitchen. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“I took German,” Scully reminds him, entering anyway. She hesitates before closing the front door.

It’s been two weeks since she was last in this apartment, under very different circumstances. She’s been here more times than she can count, in various states of duress, but her last visit is the one that hangs over her head. Unfinished business.

“You eat yet?” Mulder calls out from the kitchen. “I was going to heat up some soup.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” she replies, stepping into kitchen and leaning awkwardly against the doorjamb. “Can I help with anything? Since I’m here.”

“You can start the kettle,” he replies, tilting his head towards the stove. “There’s a box of chamomile in one of those bags.”

“You drink hot tea?” Scully asks, somewhat surprised.

He places a quart of orange juice and a carton of eggs in the refrigerator. “You said it might help me sleep,” he explains.

She’s oddly touched that he tried something she’d suggested offhand. “Has it?”

“Not really, but I do it anyway,” he replies, shrugging. “It’s kinda nice.”

Scully looks down, briefly remembering what transpired between them right there in his tiny kitchen. _It started on the countertop and ended on the floor…_

Mulder’s voice pulls her back into the present. “So what brings you here?” he asks, digging around in a drawer and pulled out a can opener. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

Scully fetches the kettle and takes it to the sink, filling it under the tap. “I actually thought… we should talk.”

“Ooh, talking. Should I be nervous?” he jokes, lighting one of the stove burners. He takes the kettle from her, their fingers brushing. She wonders if he can feel the tension under her skin. “I’m glad you’re here, actually,” he continues. “You seemed kind of off today, and I was wondering if… it was something I did. Or didn’t do.”

“I’m fine,” Scully says softly. “Let’s wait for the tea. And your soup.”

They sit at the table. **_The_** _table_ , Scully thinks. The one where she first felt him inside her. It’s somewhat surreal to be sitting at it now, nearly two months later, watching Mulder eat chicken corn chowder and saltines. He offers her the sleeve of crackers and she takes one gingerly, feels it crumble on her tongue.

“So,” he says, dipping a saltine in the soup.

“So,” she replies, absently running a finger along the edge of the tabletop.

“Nice wood, huh?” Mulder asks, grinning at her.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Scully sighs.

“Hey, when you got it, you got it,” he shrugs, then recalculates. “Sorry. I’m being glib.”

“I’m used to it,” she replies. “It’s one of your defense mechanisms.”

“Oh, one of _my_ defense mechanisms?” he says, gestures at himself with his spoon.

“Yes,” Scully says calmly. “You often make jokes to ease discomfort.”

“Well in that case, at least I’m trying to fix something, instead of pretending everything’s fine,” he counters, shoving a saltine into his mouth.

Scully licks her lips. “Mulder, I came here because everything is not fine, and I’m trying to fix it,” she explains. “I hope you can in the very least respect my efforts.”

His face softens, and he nods. “Okay,” he says gently. “Have some of that tea,” he suggests, motioning to her untouched cup.

Scully hums and picks up her mug, letting the steam bathe her face as she takes a sip. It’s cheap chamomile, but it’s warm and comforting.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here, what I should say,” she admits. “I’m terrible at this."

“Say whatever you need,” Mulder replies. “I’m listening.”

“Mulder, I… I’m having a hard time with this. With us.”

“Us,” he says carefully. “If you mean there’s something wrong in our partnership-“

“Not our partnership, Mulder. The you and me outside of work. If there even is a part of our relationship that’s more than professional.”

“Of course there is,” Mulder insists. “We’ve been friends a long time, Scully.”

“Yes, we have,” she agrees. Part of her wants to bail on the conversation right now, leave things exactly as they are. As friends. It would be so easy.

Mulder puts down his spoon. “Look, if this is about me kissing you last night, I’m sorry. Our... arrangement... is over, and I completely respect that.”

“Why did you do it?” Scully asks suddenly. “No jokes, no deflections. Why?”

He looks directly at her, eyes gentle. Almost pleading. “Scully,” he says softly.

“Mulder,” she whispers, “Please.”

“Because… because I’m an asshole, and I wanted to. So I did it. And I thought... it’s stupid, but I thought maybe you wanted it too.” Mulder drops his gaze into the bowl of soup in front of him.

Scully wrestles with her words momentarily. “…It was nice,” she confesses. “I liked it.”

Mulder looks up in surprise. “I didn’t overstep?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“And I think... if you wanted to try it again, sometime... I wouldn’t be opposed.” She feels somewhat nauseous, but forges ahead. “I don’t want to go back to our previous arrangement,” she clarifies. “It wasn’t a good fit for us. For me.”

Mulder opens his mouth, and Scully cuts him off. “Please don’t make a joke about fitting, Mulder, or I swear to God I will leave right now,” she warns.

He raises his hands in acquiescence. “I said nothing.”

“You,” Scully says, resting her face in her hands, “are impossible. Why do I even bother?”

“It’s been six years, Scully. You’re in too deep to quit now.” His eyes sparkle mischievously, and Scully allows herself to smile.

“Which is why going forward I want things to be a little clearer between us,” she continues. “So that no one gets hurt.”

Mulder chews a cracker contemplatively. “You plannin’ on breaking my heart, Scully?”

“I’m more concerned about you breaking mine.”

“I could never,” he declares.

 _You do every damn day that you don’t touch me,_ Scully thinks. “You might be surprised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you didn't think I'd let them resolve it all in one chapter, did you?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *record scratch*

_Wait._

Mulder pauses with a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. “Scully,” he says carefully, “Are you implying something?”

She looks like she’s about to pull her hair out. Or his. _Hmm… file that thought away for later._ “Mulder, what do you want me to say?” she pleads.

Why does she keep putting this on _him_? He’s suddenly exasperated. “I don’t know what _you_ want to say. You want things to be clearer, right? Seems like now is a great time to start, so just talk.”

She bristles. “You know what, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” she sighs.

“That’s perfect,” Mulder grumbles. “Let’s just bail on this discussion and rehash it later, that sounds fun.”

“Why are you being like this?” she asks, gesturing at him in frustration.

Mulder spreads his hands wide. “I’m just eating soup!”

Scully drops her elbows to the table. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she says, hand cradling her forehead. “I’m a little on edge.”

“Well, me too,” he says quietly. “This isn’t going very well, is it?”

Scully lets out a short, wet laugh. “No, it’s not.” He hears her sniff. “And no, I’m not crying,” she adds quickly.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Mulder says softly. “I’m being an ass.” He nudges his bowl across the table, a peace offering. “You want some soup?”

She shakes her head.

“If it makes you feel any better, our arrangement wasn’t working for me either. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

She looks confused. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” She reflexively wipes her nose on her sleeve, then looks briefly disgusted. “Ugh, do you have any tissues?”

Mulder passes her his napkin. “Isn’t that why you ended it? You wanted to keep it impersonal, and I kept breaking your rules.”

“Mulder, I ended it because _I_ couldn’t keep it impersonal. That last night, when you said my name… I regretted ever saying you couldn’t.”

Mulder nods. “I hate being called Fox,” he says. “By everyone, but especially by you. I don’t want to be Fox to you.”

“Who do you want to be to me?” Scully asks, eyes shining. The question hangs above them, a heavy cloud swollen with rain.

 _Everything,_ Mulder thinks.

“Everything,” he says.

The cloud bursts.

They sit mutely on opposite sides of a much-defiled table, a lukewarm bowl of chicken corn chowder sitting between them. Mulder thinks Scully’s eyes have never been so wide.

“Everything,” she whispers. “Dammit, Mulder, you can’t just say things like that, because I’ll want to believe you every fucking time.”

“After all we’ve been through, how are you still surprised?”

She wipes her eyes roughly. “I could say the same to you.”

They’re at a stalemate, unable to end the game but having no other choice.

“So,” Mulder says.

“So,” she echoes.

“Are we… Scully, help me out here.”

She actually rolls her eyes. “I can’t read your mind either, Mulder. You say your piece and I say mine, okay?”

“Fine.” He pushes the bowl of soup out of the way, reaches for her hands across the table. “Scully, I love you.”

Okay, _now_ Scully’s eyes have never been so wide.

“Was that the wrong thing to say?” Mulder asks. “Were we going to say something vague or obfuscating first?”

“No, sorry, that’s fine,” Scully says, looking down at their joined hands. “Give me a moment.”

He glances over at the bowl of chowder. If all goes well, maybe he’ll give her a can as an anniversary present next year. He can only hope.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Scully says. She gives his hands a squeeze. “I… I love you. Too.”

He looks at their hands, her cautious face, the rest of the room. “Huh. World didn’t end.”

She closes her eyes, smiles shakily. “No, I guess it didn’t.” She withdraws her hands slowly, folds them in her lap.

“Good talk,” Mulder says, standing awkwardly and picking up the soup bowl. “So, uh, do you want to watch a movie or something?”

“I should be going, actually,” Scully says, rising. “I’m not running away,” she assures him. She takes a deep breath. “This is just a lot to process, and I… I think we should take things slow.”

“Things?” Mulder asks slyly, taking his dish to the kitchen and dumping it in the sink. “Tell me about these things, Agent Scully.” He wipes his hands on his jeans as he walks towards her. “You have some new rules for me to break?”

She takes her coat from the rack, arches her neck to meet his eyes as he towers above her. She’s not wearing heels, and he’s thrilled by how small she is next to him.

“We can break them together,” she says shyly. “But not yet. I need some time.”

He bites his lips, nods. “Okay, Scully,” he says softly. “I’ll be here.”

“Goodnight,” she says, opening his front door. She pauses, turns back to him, and reaches up. One cool hand grasps the front of his sweater, the other slides to the back of his neck as she pulls him down to her.

Scully’s lips are soft and warm on his, and it feels like the first time; the first time she kisses him, the first time he’s ever been touched at all. Her kiss is gentle and honest and he briefly wonders, in panic, if he’s going to cry.

Before he can kiss back, draw her in, touch her, she’s gone; the apartment door clicking shut behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a lot a lot a lot


End file.
